


Chasing Relief

by bitsori



Category: Stray Kids (Band)
Genre: Adulting is hard, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Career Professionals, Developing Relationship, Friends With Benefits, M/M, Minor Sexual Content, Non-Linear Narrative, copious amounts of smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-03
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-16 15:14:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28958526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bitsori/pseuds/bitsori
Summary: Being an adult comes with a lot of stress; Jisung comes to learn that all you can do is try your best to chase that sweet relief.
Relationships: Han Jisung | Han/Lee Minho | Lee Know
Comments: 22
Kudos: 197
Collections: MINSUNG FICATHON: Round One; 2020





	Chasing Relief

**Author's Note:**

> `Written for [MINSUNG FICATHON](http://twitter.com/minsungficathon) Round One, Prompt A060.`
> 
> my prompt was [an incredibly relatable screenshot from office space](https://drive.google.com/open?id=1S4VExlD8msh9dSruewfNcEIcnNAxobfG). somehow something fluffy stemmed from such a bleak quote, haha. also, all time low's [weightless](https://open.spotify.com/track/0aZJGkkXR3DgaFqo5sB8ot) was kind of a personal supplementary prompt to this. enjoy! (hopefully)
> 
> p.s. thank you to ao3 user [koto](https://archiveofourown.org/users/koto) for generously betareading this. ♥

\--  
  


Jisung, as soon as he steps off the elevator, is quick to spot him. As usual Minho is standing in the small, boxed area of their building’s lobby that’s designated as a smoking area. Also as usual, he has a lit cigarette dangling between his lips; Jisung would shake his head and click his tongue in disappointment because Minho is always mentioning wanting to quit, but disappointment would imply caring, and he really shouldn’t. Besides, Jisung is itching for a hit of nicotine himself.

Minho is wearing a pink button up with a burgundy tie that’s loose around his neck; even though he looks far more rumpled now than he likely did that morning, he still looks relatively made up—more dignified and business-like than Jisung does in his oversized statement hoodie and ripped jeans. Instead of a tie, Jisung wears obnoxious red Beats™ headphones around his neck, and instead of a leather briefcase, a canvas messenger bag is slung across his chest. 

The stark contrast in their get-ups is to be expected based on the difference of the atmosphere between their respective workplaces. Jisung is a junior creative at the advertising agency located on the 7th floor, while Minho is employed by the insurance company on the 10th. 

“Yo.” Jisung greets him with a half-hearted wave when he reaches Minho. “You got another one of those?” he asks, gesturing at the cigarette as the latter blows rings of smoke.

Minho takes a crumpled pack of smokes out of his breast pocket and holds it out towards Jisung so he can pull one out. “You owe me.”

He isn't talking about the cigarette, and Jisung knows as much. He leans in, stick balanced between his lips, and gestures for Minho to light it for him, while he rummages through his bag for his wallet.

“Here.” He slaps a 10,000KRW note onto Minho's palm; it's an ongoing bet between them – whoever gets out of work later pays the other.

It was supposed to be a trick; a way for both of them to stop overworking themselves. It shouldn't be normal to work so much overtime, especially not on the daily. So far it's a failure for both of them. At this point, they're practically exchanging the same bill over and over again.

“Have you had dinner?” Jisung asks after he takes a long drag off his cigarette. He feels a shot of nicotine rush through him; feels a cloud of smoke fill his lungs. It feels pretty good; relaxing. More so when he slowly exhales the smoke through his nose.

“Yeah,” Minho answers. “Ordered with some of the guys at work earlier. You?”

Jisung shrugs. “Nah. Not hungry though.”

Minho gives him a look, like he wants to say something. But it fades soon enough, and he nods instead. “If you say so,” he mutters. “Let's get going?”

“Your place?”

“Yeah,” Minho answers, stubbing out what's left of his cigarette and throwing it into the steel trash bin they're standing next to. “Your place is a sty.”

Jisung laughs; he can't argue facts.

  
  
  


Jisung lives in a small studio apartment. His living room flows right into his kitchen area – not that he uses the kitchen very much outside of the instant coffee maker and his self-professed best friend, the microwave oven. His sleeping area is the tiny loft right above the entrance, and more often than not his bed is littered with discarded clothes. It's not even that Jisung can't afford more – he has lived there since his last year of university, and now he has a job that pays quite decently, especially for someone straight out of college. Lucky for him, his team handles pretty high profile accounts. Nevertheless, he likes the familiar cosiness the apartment offers.

Meanwhile, Minho lives in a two bedroom unit – he says he used to have a roommate, but Jisung has known him for six months and if the way Minho has turned the second bedroom into a home gym is indication, he's pretty sure he has no plans of finding another one. His kitchen is bigger as well, properly separated from the living room, even though it's conflated with the dining area; Jisung assumes Minho probably uses his kitchen a lot more than Jisung uses his. He wouldn't really know because he hasn't stayed over long enough to find out, but he has noticed that Minho's pantry and his fridge are always stocked – and not just with instant food like ramyeon and other convenience store microwavables. 

Even their apartments are opposite, and one should be able to assume that that's a reflection of who they are in real life; that Minho and Jisung are as different as night and day, a pair of people who do wouldn't fit very well when put together.

Except that isn't the case at all. 

When they fall onto the bed together—onto Minho's comfortable, queen sized bed with sheets that smell like cherry blossom scented fabric softener—they always fit together so well.

When Jisung folds Minho's legs up against his chest, and he presses into Minho—the sounds they make, the grunts and moans that fall from their mouths mix together perfectly, almost melodious, even, and compounded even further when the springs of Minho's bed start to creak as Jisung fucks into him, and Minho ruts up, their hips meeting and following a cadence that the two of them naturally—wordlessly—set together.

And when they climax, they do it one after another, only seconds apart; together even in this kind of bliss.

Jisung is thankful for Minho; thankful for the way the stress of his days comfortably ebb away when they're with each other like this. Then again, that’s exactly how and why this arrangement between them had started.

He rolls off Minho, and sinks into the mattress; no doubt about it, between the two of them Minho has the more comfortable bed. His chest heaves as he chases his breath, and his eyes naturally fall shut as he feels exhaustion take over him.

“Are you hungry yet?” Minho asks, the mattress shifting a little.

When Jisung opens one eye, he realises that’s because Minho had reached for his phone. He would do the same, but he assumes that his is somewhere on the floor, tucked inside the back pocket of his discarded jeans.

“Uh.” His stomach loudly rumbles, and he laughs. “Guess that answers your question. Let’s order in. I’m suddenly feeling famished.”

Minho sniffs, and pulls himself up to a sitting position; he can’t even be bothered to cover up or at least put underwear back on, but it isn’t as if Jisung minds. 

He smirks, eyes glued to his phone screen as his thumbs navigate across the touch screen. “Sex on an empty stomach does that,” he says, and Jisung supposes he agrees.

  
  
  


The first time Jisung met Minho is a memory that remains sharp and vivid in his mind. It was one of those days when Jisung's outfit erred more on the side of business rather than casual; his company was truly very lenient when it came to work attire, but his team had a very important pitch that day.

Said pitch was the reason for Jisung nervously chain smoking; he was on his lunch break, and instead of dining at that family restaurant down the block where he usually goes when he needs to eat, he was killing time at the smoking area in the lobby of their building.

Minho was the one to approach him first, polite as he asked for Jisung to light his cigarette; Jisung mostly remembers the way he made an idiot of himself though; the way it took multiple times for him to get the lighter to work because he was distracted by Minho’s profile. The man is beautiful, and Jisung isn’t blind.

“I’m Minho,” he had introduced himself after Jisung was finally able to get his lighter to spark. “Now you know my name, so staring becomes doubly rude.”

Jisung blinked at him, aghast and mostly embarrassed. “There’s a rule like that?”

Minho had laughed, loud and giggly, as if he was a young boy undergoing puberty instead of a full grown man. It was strangely attractive, if only because Minho clearly didn’t care about what kind of image he showed. “Who knows?” He shrugged. “Staring is rude either way.”

He was right, and Jisung had to duck his head apologetically. “Sorry.”

“If you tell me your name, I’ll call it even.”

“Han Jisung,” he answered, caving in easily; to this day, Jisung thinks that the sparkle in Minho’s eyes when he smiled in response was pretty worth it.

  
  
  


“Pizza? Chicken?” Minho asks as he navigates through a food app on his phone. “I have beer in the fridge.”

Jisung grunts and shifts to his side, propping up his elbow and resting his head against his hand as he stares at Minho. “Why not both?”

“Because both will make us bloat tomorrow,” Minho points out.

“So? It’s Saturday.” He pauses, and furrows his brow. “Are you working on a Saturday because if you are then you should give me back that 10,000 now.”

“No—” Minho laughs. “Fine. We’ll get both,” he says, thumb moving around his touch screen a few seconds more before locking his phone and placing it back on his nightstand. “Done.”

“You didn’t even ask me what toppings I wanted,” Jisung complains, sighing as he falls back against the mattress again.

“Because I already know what you like,” Minho says. “Extra cheese, extra peppers, hold the olives.”

Jisung rubs his face against a pillow to muffle his whining; it should be strange how well Minho knows his taste. Again—it isn’t as if they’re anything to each other; acquaintances at best, if anything.

Acquaintances who regularly fuck, more accurately.

“Food’s gonna take at least half an hour to get here though,” Minho tells him, fingers curling around Jisung’s wrist and attempting to gently tug him closer.

Jisung is confused, but he doesn’t protest at all when Minho pulls him against his chest.

Correction: they’re acquaintances who regularly fuck  _ and _ cuddle, apparently.

“You’re warm,” Minho mumbles into his hair; it’s such a harmless comment, but it makes Jisung feel hot. He wonders if that’s why Minho said that. If he’s aware of the acute effect of his words and it’s his way of turning Jisung into his personal heater.

The notion is silly, so Jisung actively pushes it to the back of his thoughts.

“Hey Minho,” he starts instead. “Are you where you imagined you would be in life right now?”

  
  
  


It was easy to notice each other more and more after that first fateful meeting; technically they weren’t strangers anymore. Somehow, the two of them were always taking cigarette breaks at the same time. Normally, Jisung would be fine keeping to himself and never really acknowledging Minho again past a simple nod, but it turned out that Minho wasn’t cut the same.

It turned out that Minho was the type to approach boldly; the type to come over and make small talk as if they were old friends and not two strangers (technically) who have nothing in common save for the building they work at and the time of day they preferred to take smoking breaks. Even their taste for cigarettes differed; Jisung preferred classic, original. Minho liked his with a hit of menthol.

Nevertheless, it became something of a standing date; an unsaid shared schedule for both of them. Every time Minho wasn’t there in the smoking lounge, Jisung always felt something hollow in his gut that he never quite figured out how to define.

“Wanna go get coffee?” Minho eventually asked Jisung; it was a Thursday afternoon—a trivial detail that Jisung retained in his head. “I’m actually trying to quit smoking.”

And yet he still made his way to the smoking lounge at the usual hour; Jisung marked that as interesting, but he refused to read anything more to it. 

“And caffeine is your alternate drug of choice?” he sassily remarked. He was quick to put his lit cigarette out in the nearest ashtray, though; quick to follow Minho to the Starbucks across the lobby of their building.

Minho laughed. “You could say that.”

It was Minho who paid for their drinks — iced Americanos for both of them, which caught Jisung off-guard; not because Minho didn't seem like an Americano man, but because it was the first time since meeting that their preferences perfectly aligned.

“Work must be going well,” he commented once they were seated across each other at a table.

“What makes you assume as much?” Minho asked, an amused quirk tugging at his lips. “Is my skin glowing more than usual?”

He was clearly teasing, and Jisung could only laugh. “Nah,” he shook his head. “If you're choosing now as time to quit smoking, I figured it's because you can afford to—that there's less stress.”

His only basis for his conclusion was his own tendency to rely on nicotine far too much for stress relief; on days when he had to meet important clients he could easily go through a single pack of smokes.

Minho had let out a snort in response. “I wish that was the case,” he says. “Let me tell you a secret, Jisungie.”

The way the name slid off his tongue sounded so natural—so casual, and Jisung could only nod mutely in response. For some reason, it was only then that he actively realised that they had been conversing informally all those weeks without making any sort of deal of it.

“I work in insurance,” Minho continued, his tone glib. “And when you work in an industry that's as droll as mine, each day feels worse than the last.” And then he laughed. “So the stress just grows worse—but there's nothing I could do about that, so I might as well make changes in other areas of my life. Right?”

  
  
  


As previously established, Minho's attempts at quitting smoking haven't really worked out. Even now, while he ponders Jisung's out of the blue question, the first thing he does is reach for his cigarette holder on his nightstand.

“What kind of question is that?” he asks, completely pulling away from the hold he has on Jisung and sitting up on his bed while lighting a stick.

“The kind of question I feel like asking.” Jisung shrugs. Now that Minho has let go, he feels strangely cold; he reaches for a stick himself before Minho can put the cigarettes away.

“Too much going on in that brain of yours sometimes, 'Sung,” Minho tells him, leaning in so he can light Jisung's cigarette up.

“The mark of a true genius,” Jisung retorts, grinning cheekily as he inhales smoke into his lungs.

Minho laughs. “Fine, I'll play. Are  _ you _ where you imagined yourself to be when you were 10—? 15? 19, and about to finish high school?”

Jisung snorts; he takes another long drag before he shrugs and gestures around with a hand. “When you're young and you think about your future, you never imagine it like this.”

“Like… this?” Minho squints at him, copying Jisung's hand wave and then letting out a soft chuckle. “You mean you never fantasized about regularly fucking some salaryman you met randomly?”

“Would you really call it random if we go to work at the same building?”

“Sure.” Minho laughs, and even like this, in the quiet, and under the dim lighting of Minho's bedside lamp, Jisung can't help but appreciate the carefree sound of Minho's laughter. “In a parallel universe,” Minho continues, “I could have just as easily ended up in bed with one of your co-workers instead. That Changbin dude for one.”

Jisung winces; Seo Changbin is another junior creative in his team. He had joined the company just a few months before Jisung did, so they had naturally gravitated towards each other when Jisung joined the company. Changbin is a natural extrovert, though, and it didn’t take long before he’d become popular amongst their co-workers; always the center of attention as he cracked jokes in the pantry during snack breaks, and always the first one to be invited for drinks after work. Minho met him once; Jisung was getting sandwiches at the 7-Eleven down the block and Changbin just happened to be with him. He never knew that meeting made a lasting impression on Minho and it annoys him now that he realises it did.

“Please don’t put that image in my head,” he says, huffing; he’s trying not to be obvious with his irritation, but Minho’s knowing smirk tells him he failed at that. 

“No love for the Changbin guy?”

“He’s great,” Jisung grunts. “I just didn’t want to imagine you and him fucking.”

Minho cackles. “Jealous?” he taunts, reaching over to scratch Jisung’s chin.

“You wish.”

“Hey, you’re the one who broached the topic,” Minho points out, shrugging as he exhales smoke through the side of his mouth.

“This isn’t exactly the topic I started,” Jisung points out. “I’ve just been thinking about the disparity between my expectations when I was younger, and the reality of my right now.” He pauses, before admitting, “My fifth high school graduation anniversary is coming soon and I got an e-vite for a little get together.”

“Yeah?” Minho seems amused. “Are you going? You're doing pretty well at work. You're a junior creative exec at a top advertising firm—you've got nothing to be ashamed of.”

Jisung hums; that isn't really where his hesitations lie. “Thinking about it. Maybe if I have the time.”

“You should,” Minho urges. “Make time, I mean.”

“Eh.” Jisung gestures for Minho to hand him the ashtray that’s placed on his nightstand; he’s getting cigarette ash all over Minho’s sheets—then again, they both are, and Minho doesn’t seem to mind too much. “Hyung, do you still see your high school best friends regularly?”

“Who does?” Minho snorts. “Is that what this little conversation is about? Reunion on top of your head?”

“Hmm.” Jisung groans; he curls up and hugs his knees against his chest. He feels warm; mostly embarrassed, and yet he can’t stop talking and mulling over the topic. “The movies always make it seem like the friends you make at that age are your friends forever.”

“They could easily be that if you want them to,” Minho answers.

“It doesn’t feel like it anymore.”

Minho frowns and turns to face Jisung, poking at the side of his knee. “What's bothering you?”

Jisung’s breath hitches, and he quietly ponders sharing more. This isn’t really them—or is it? He might enjoy being balls deep in Minho’s ass, might enjoy having Minho’s dick deep down his throat given the chance, but past that the two of them aren’t really the type to get  _ deep  _ with each other – not when it comes to real life things that count.

Then again, with Minho things feel easy. Jisung finds himself sharing things even when he doesn’t mean to, and Minho never actually shies away from humoring him and even giving him advice.

Jisung takes a deep breath; as far as he could tell, Minho is a good guy so what does he really have to lose by opening up a little more than he already had? “I guess—” he starts, only to be interrupted by an irritating buzzing sound.

“Hold that thought,” Minho interrupts, holding up a finger before he grabs his phone. “Food’s here,” he announces. He grins at Jisung, and as if on auto-pilot, he leans in to casually peck Jisung on the cheek before sliding out of bed and looking around for underwear to put on.

It takes a few seconds before it registers with both of them what Minho had just done; their eyes meet, and unsure what to say Jisung shrugs his shoulder and offers Minho a quiet smile.

When Minho exits the room a moment later, Jisung reaches up, touching his cheek right where Minho’s lips had been just a minute ago. He finds that it feels incredibly warm.

  
  
  


It happened one night when they caught each other on the elevator going down. It was late—around nine in the evening. As usual, Jisung had worked way past his normal hours, and so had Minho.

“Hey.” Jisung’s brow had furrowed in surprise, while Minho was quick to offer him that amused smile he seemed to wear whenever he was around Jisung.

“Late night,” Minho observed.

“You too.”

There had been silence as the floor indicator went down—4th floor, 3rd, and then,

“You wanna go for a beer?” Minho had asked.

Jisung’s initial instinct was to say no; cigarette and coffee breaks in broad daylight were one thing, but late night drinks were something else entirely. But something about his long day at work made Jisung feel like he needed to unwind; to make sure he doesn’t bring all of his piled on stress back home and before he knew it he was saying yes.

That was one way to put most things about that night —  _ before he knew it. _

Before he knew it he was at a pub with Minho, three beers down and appropriately buzzed as the two of them talked about work; before he knew it Jisung was rambling about all the ideas in his head regarding how to market grape soda, while Minho complained about some co-worker’s ineptitude at handling spreadsheets.

Before he knew it Minho was paying their bill, and before he knew it they were in the backseat of Minho’s car, hands and mouths wandering, eager and hot. Before he knew it, his pants were down to his knees, and before Minho’s mouth wrapped around his cock, expert in the way his lips and tongue worked their magic.

Before he knew it, he had reached his climax, fingers pulling at Minho’s hair; before he knew it, Minho was flashing a smug, self satisfied grin at him while he felt all of his stress flow away completely.

Before he knew it, that night had become just the first of many.

  
  
  


They relocate to Minho’s kitchen to eat; Minho is in a shirt and an old pair of joggers, while prescription glasses sit on the bridge of his nose. His hair is a mess, but he looks comfortable and happy; relaxed in a way that makes Jisung feel settled.

Meanwhile Jisung is wearing a shirt of his—not the one he arrived in that Minho had been quick and eager to take off him an hour or so earlier. It’s one that he apparently left behind before; he had been surprised when Minho handed it to him for him to change into—he never even stays the night, so when did he start leaving things at Minho’s? 

“So.” Minho hands him a can of beer before parking himself on the seat adjacent to Jisung’s; he opens the pizza box between them, and the smell of tomato sauce mixed with melted cheese fills Jisung’s senses. “Let’s get back to what you were saying earlier.”

Jisung waves a hand dismissively as he reaches for a pizza slice. “It’s nothing.”

Minho gives him a doubt-filled look. “Okay, it’s cool if you don’t want to talk about it,” he says. “It’s obvious that something’s bothering you though.”

Jisung doesn’t answer immediately. He takes a large bite into his pizza slice, and another—and another. He fills his cheeks, before taking a large gulp of beer and pushing all that food down.

“I had the best friends in high school,” he shares finally after swallowing. “Seungmin was kind of a nag, but he was always the one looking out for me—for everyone. And Felix—he grew up overseas until he was 14, so his Korean was shaky, and in effect he was a little slow on the uptake sometimes—but he had the biggest heart. It was always fun messing with him, though. And then there was Hyunjin, who got on my nerves a lot because we were so different from each other—and he was pretty as fuck.” Jisung laughs. “Pretty people kinda pissed me off a lot when I was a teenager.”

“Sounds like some kind of hormonal puberty shit,” Minho comments.

Jisung snorts. “Yeah, you’re probably right. He was a great friend though. Always there for you when you need to do stupid but fun things like go into his father's soju stash, new year's eve when we turned 20—they all were. Even Seungmin. We did everything together—promised friends forever.  _ Literally promised  _ friends forever,” he emphasises. “Blood pact and all. We saw it in a movie once and we were young enough to think it would be cool to copy movies in real life.”

Minho laughs. “They sound great—actually it sounds like you were living out some kind of ideal coming of age story during your high school days,” he teases.

He’s clearly poking fun at Jisung, but his words actually make him think. 

“You—” he chuckles, “You’re probably right about that, too. High school was great for me. I didn’t have many friends, but I had the best friends. But—all the high school movies never really tell you what happens after graduation.”

Minho hums. “Not entirely true. There are more movies about college students recently,” he points out with a smile.

“Not the point, hyung!” Jisung groans.

“I know.” Minho softens, and he pokes Jisung’s leg with his foot under the table. “You know you can’t expect life to be a movie.”

Of course Jisung agrees with that; it’s not like he expects his life to play out like they do in films. “It’s not that,” he murmurs.

Minho pokes him with his foot again. “I know,” he says. “So just tell me what’s really bothering you.”

“I’m scared,” he finally admits. “Ever since I was a kid I’ve always had a hard time making friends. High school was the first time I really felt like I had people I could truly trust. And I guess for a while, it didn't matter to me what I was going to do with my life. If you asked me at 18 what my future looked like, it was always a future with them by my side. But then we graduated—and it was suddenly harder to maintain those friendships. Hyunjin and I went to the same university, so at least I had that connection with him even though he was easily some kind of campus crush for most of those four years. But ever since we all started working, it’s been even harder—I never see any of them now, and it sucks. They’re all so busy—well. I am, too, but imagine having to be penciled into your best friends’ schedules?”

Minho sighs. “I don’t have to imagine it,” he says. “I have one friend from high school that I regularly talk to, and he's even busier than I am. Chan doesn't even work in Seoul, so we have to make plans weeks in advance whenever we actually want to see each other.”

Jisung frowns. “Doesn’t that feel wrong?”

“Not really.” Minho chuckles softly. “It just… is.” He falls silent, eyes studying Jisung, who starts to feel self-conscious under his gaze.

“What?”

“Do you have friends at work?” Minho asks.

“Changbin-hyung is one, I guess,” Jisung murmurs; he suddenly feels like such a loser, yet he doesn’t regret broaching this topic with Minho. “It’s not the same with people at work.”

“Yeah, it’s not the same because they’re not the same people—and because you have different things in common,” Minho points out; he purses his lips, and he looks as if he’s struggling to put words together. “I think that's fine, though. You don't need many best friends—and not all your friendships need to be built for forever.” He sighs. “I’m sorry, ‘Sung. I guess I’ve never really had any trouble making friends—or at least people you can call friends. So I can’t say that I can truly relate, but at the same time, I’ve never really had the kind of friendship you’re describing—” he laughs, “the kind of friendship you make with people who are willing to do blood pacts with you.”

“That’s okay,” Jisung assures him, and he realises that it really is. He had started the conversation thinking that Minho could help him somehow; that Minho will have some kind of wisdom to pass onto him, gleaned from the two years he has on Jisung, but now that they’re just talking he realises that isn’t it. Just having this conversation with Minho is already helping him sort his thoughts and feelings out. “What do you mean though?” Something about the way Minho worded things has stuck out to him. “By ‘people you can call friends.’ Is that different from actually having friends?” 

“A bit, don’t you think?” Minho smiles and shrugs his shoulders. “Meeting people—starting conversations with people, it’s always come easy for me. I don’t care for small talk, so I just ask people whatever it is on my mind—if the other party finds it awkward, that’s on them. I don’t mull it over, and I just move on. I make a lot of friends, but most of them are just for now—most of them are friendships built on proximity, and I'm with that. Somehow this always works for me, though? And maybe I’ve taken this ability for granted—”

“You totally have,” Jisung mutters; he feels envious, truth be told.

Minho laughs, and continues, “—but people tend to open up to me, and in high school I had a lot of so-called friends—in university, too. But they were all mostly friendships formed thanks to proximity. They were my friends because we went to school together, and once we didn’t have that anymore, we didn’t have much in common.”

Jisung frowns. “That’s exactly what I’m afraid of, I think.”

Minho quickly shakes his head. “Your best friends don’t sound like that based on what you’ve told me though,” he points out. “Like I said, I have one person like that—and you know what? It takes a little bit of work, but I do it because he means a lot to me. I think if you want someone in your life, it doesn’t matter if you don’t get to spend as much time together—or if you don’t talk as often as you would want. With people who are meant to be in your life, it will always feel like time hasn’t passed at all every time you reunite—but you have to make time for them even if that involves needing to schedule dates weeks, or even months in advance. That’s just what being an adult is like. You have to learn to organize your time—and even your people.”

“Being an adult sucks,” Jisung grumbles.

Minho chortles. “It’s true, I’m not even going to deny that.”

“So if one of us changes jobs—if one of us starts working somewhere at the other end of the city, are you just gonna move on and forget about me?” Jisung asks; he tries to make light of it—tries to sound like he’s teasing and joking around, but the moment the question passes his lips, his breath hitches. 

He’s anxious about what Minho’s answer is going to be.

But then Minho just meets his gaze; one beat—two beats, and then three passes, and then he laughs.

“Makes you wonder, huh?” Minho answers, right before he takes one long swig from his beer.

  
  
  


“I had different dreams when I was younger,” Minho suddenly says as they clean up in the kitchen together. Jisung is confused until he realises that Minho is technically answering his original question.

“Yeah?” He acknowledges as he transfers remaining pizza slices into a pop-and-lock container.

“Well, I don’t think many kids really dream about working for an insurance agency at a young age, you know?” Minho comments with a laugh.

“So what did you envision yourself as, then?”

“I was going to be a professional dancer,” Minho shares. “That was the dream anyway. And then I injured my knee during a stupid pickup game of soccer during my last year of high school, and that dream went away—although, who knows if I could have turned it into reality even without that injury.” He shrugs. “In the end, practicality won and I had to adapt.”

Jisung stares at Minho; he imagines him as a dancer, and then he quickly shakes it off. His brain slid right into the gutter with the image he couldn’t help but conjure; to be fair, Minho has a way with his hips—has a particular control over his body that Jisung is all too familiar with that makes it easy to imagine him as a dancer in the past.

“Were you good?” he asks anyway.

“Yes,” Minho answers, a little too quickly. “I think I was at that time anyway. Wasted dreams are why I try not to think about work too much now, though.”

“And yet you’re a raging workaholic,” Jisung points out; he has to be, considering the hours that Minho puts in. As frustrated as Jisung is about the hours he himself keeps, at least he actually  _ likes _ his job; well, he likes that it’s an outlet for his creativity anyway. He’s pretty sure that Minho can’t say the same about crunching insurance numbers.

“Oh that’s just because I like the money,” Minho admits, very matter-of-fact in his honesty; it makes Jisung laugh, which in turn makes Minho smile. “You know, I used to go drinking a lot with my colleagues—sometimes we even went dancing. Just to destress.”

“Yeah? Why don’t you anymore?”

Minho shrugs and then he gives Jisung a pointed look. “Found a much better way to relieve my stress, I guess.”

Jisung’s heart skips a beat.

  
  
  


It's late when Jisung finally washes up. It's at least 1 in the morning—maybe closer to 2. Nevertheless, he starts to get ready to leave.

“I'm booking a car now!” he announces after stepping out of the bathroom; the most he did was wash his face and gargle mouthwash. At least he doesn't smell like a strange mixture of sex and pizza grease.

It's always like this; one of their unsaid and unwritten rules is that no sleepovers are allowed. Jisung has never questioned it before, it just seemed logical. Morning-afters complicate things—something about seeing someone with bed hair makes them seem more unguarded and vulnerable than usual. Not the best ingredient for a friends-who-fuck situation.

The no sleeping over edict is largely why they still end up at Jisung's sometimes despite Minho clearly having the better apartment. Minho also has a car, while Jisung doesn't and somehow, even without truly having a sit-down conversation about the logistics, it was decided that it would be unfair on Jisung who always has to book cabs to go home.

“Hyung?” He pokes his head inside Minho's bedroom and finds the older man isn't there. “Hyung?!” he calls out again, louder this time.

“Over here!” He hears a faint answer coming from the kitchen area, and when he ambles over there he finds the sliding door that leads to the balcony is open.

“Are you even still trying to quit?” he comments light-heartedly when he steps out and he notices that Minho is smoking yet again.

“Hmmm,” Minho hums; he offers the cigarette to Jisung but for once he shakes his head and turns it down. He feels too good at the moment. “I just have some things in my mind,” Minho murmurs.

“Like what?” Jisung asks. “I mean you don't have to say if you don't want to—I'm not trying to impose.” 

Minho seems entertained if his smile is anything to go by. “You didn't think I was imposing when I made you share earlier—what makes you think you'd be imposing by asking what's on my mind?”

That's true, Jisung realises; with renewed boldness, he asks again, “Okay, so like what, then?”

Minho hums and puts out his half- finished cigarette against the balustrade handle. “Like how you would answer if I ask you to stay the night like I've been planning to do all evening”

“What?” Jisung blinks; he doesn't know what comes as more of a gut punch—the actual invitation to sleep over, or the implication that Minho has been thinking about this all night. “Really?”

Minho shrugs. “We were talking earlier about putting work into relationships with people you want to keep in your life,” he smiles faintly, shy almost. “I figured making you eggs in the morning could count as work.”

Jisung is unsure how to react; he  _ is _ sure about the giddiness in his stomach though, and about the fluttery feeling in his chest that fans and spreads warmth all throughout his body. He observes Minho, and then he decides that finding words is too much trouble.

He leans over and he kisses what he could reach from the angle they're both standing; he kisses the corner of Minho's lips.

“Luckily,” he murmurs, “I haven't booked a car yet. And just so you know—I like my eggs over easy.”

A grin spreads across Minho's face, and the sparkle in his eyes are reminiscent of the shine they had when they first introduced themselves to one another.

“Noted,” Minho answers, before turning to face him. He cups Jisung's face, and the latter has to shudder at the coldness of Minho's fingertips, but the brief discomfort is forgotten soon enough when they both lean in, meeting halfway in a sweet, prolonged kiss.

Jisung is learning that being an adult is far from easy; it's complicated in a lot of little ways, mostly in ways that you don't think about and they don't warn you against when you're still young. But like most things in life, whether you're a child, or a teen, or a newly minted young adult all you can do is work through those complications—find the little joys that help you deal and let go of all the stress.

All the small moments - all the big people - that make you feel weightless; that let you feel relief.

And, just like Minho said, you work on keeping them in your life.

  
  
  
  
  


++

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for making it to the end. don't forget to read the other works in the collection as well ☺️


End file.
